Life Is Very Beautiful
by Robyn-Enjolras
Summary: ...As Katherine Howard once said. A cute oneshot story about a young Enjolras with his father. Please review! (:


A/N: The following is the result of what happens when I read Philippa Gregory novels and listen to the _Far and Away_ soundtrack while working out. And wondering what would happen if Les Amis were the Muppet Babies…. But I digress…

And my head-canon is that Enjolras and his dad were bffls when he was younger and that his mommy passed away, kinda like Henry VIII and his son Edward in _The Tudors_. If you don't like that, too bad. That's why it's called fan fiction and not fan fact.

Also, between you and me, I never was, and am still not, a fan of giving any of the Amis first names, but I figured that I had to for this story.

And I don't own Les Mis, yada yada yada.

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**BLOIS, FRANCE. 1816.**

M. Enjolras was sitting at a table in the parlor of his grand house sipping a cup of tea and looking at the paper. Above him, he heard the pitter-patter of little feet prancing down the stairs followed by the sound of much faster and larger ones. M. Enjolras looked up from the paper to see his son running towards him.

"_Bon après-midi, Papa!_" his son called out to him, his arms open.

M. Enjolras set down the paper and returned his son's hug. "How did your studies go today, Pierre?"

Before Pierre Enjolras could answer, his tutor finally made his way down the stairs. He crossed over to the table where M. Enjolras and his son were sitting. The tutor ran his fingers through his hair and smiled at his employer. "Your son is a very precocious and intelligent little boy, m'sieur. A very good student indeed," he said.

M. Enjolras looked at his son's tutor. "What did he learn today?" he asked.

As the tutor was opening his mouth to answer, little Pierre spoke up first. "The Kings and Queens of France and England, Papa!"

M. Enjolras smiled at his son. "Excellent! And who is the king of England now?"

Pierre thought for a moment, his clear blue eyes staring at the ceiling. "He is… George, _non_? _Georges Trois du Royaume-Uni_."

"And of France?" his tutor asked.

"Aw, that's easy, m'sieur! _Louis Dix-Huit de la France_!" Pierre grinned.

"Very good, Pierre, we will pick up with more kings tomorrow. _Â bientot _Messrs. Enjolras!" The tutor bowed before being escorted out of the house by a servant.

"Come here, Pierre, I want to tell you something," M. Enjolras said, patting his knee. His son obeyed and yawned before resting his head on his father's chest.

"Is it more history, Papa?" Pierre asked.

M. Enjolras laughed. "Only if you want it to be."

Pierre looked up at his father. "Well… not especially, but if you know anything interesting that you think I should know I'd like to hear it," he replied.

M. Enjolras thought for a moment and absentmindedly began to rub his hand along his son's back. "So… what city are we in right now, Pierre?"

"Blois… why do you ask, Papa?" Pierre asked.

"There was a king of England from Blois, you know," his father said.

Pierre's eyes widened. "Really? But English kings should come from England, _non_?"

M. Enjolras smiled. "Most of them do, but back in the twelfth century there was King Stephen of England, and his father was the Duke of Blois around this time and…" he looked down for a moment at his son. Pierre's eyes were open, but he kept blinking them in order to stay awake.

"Why have you stopped, Papa?" Pierre asked, failing to suppress a yawn.

M. Enjolras swept a hand through his son's curly blond hair. "You look just like your mother, you know that?"

Pierre's eyes never left his father's face, but he said nothing in response.

"You don't remember her, do you?" M. Enjolras asked his son.

Pierre shook his head, and reached in his pocket to pull out a portrait miniature with a beautiful woman on it. "This is her," he said.

M. Enjolras nodded and smiled, ignoring the tears that were beginning to well up in his eyes. He looked at he small painting of his deceased wife, and remembered when she had surprised him with it after they were married. "That's right… you were just under a year when she…" he trailed off.

"Papa, I'm tired… May I be excused to take a nap before supper tonight?" Pierre asked.

M. Enjolras snapped out of his reverie about his son's mother. "Yes… of course. I will send a servant to go get you when it is time to eat."

"Thank you, Papa. I love you!" Pierre said, swinging his arms around his father's neck. He leaped down from off of his father's knee and began the trek to his room upstairs.

M. Enjolras still had the portrait of his wife in his hand. She looked back at him, forever young and forever smiling, with curly blonde tresses and sweet and determined blue eyes, just like his son. He felt a single tear roll down his cheek and stared off into the distance, hoping that his son would be his forever, and that he would have a family of his own one day and not die young like his mother. Yet, there was some fear in the back of his mind that was beginning to fester. He did not want his son to go to the big city—to Paris, and attend university there. The thrall of the city and the lives of the poor underprivileged people were sure to ensnare his naïve son, and therefore he would lose the only family he has in this world. No… Pierre Enjolras would grow up in the countryside and inherit his father's lands; there would be no need for education or fighting. Pierre Enjolras does not need to know about the plights of the poor. The monarchy is restored, Napoleon is gone, and there is a new era of hope in France.

* * *

**PARIS, FRANCE. 1832.**

Pierre Enjolras was, as always, at the Café Musain. Today, he abandoned his studies and revolution-planning for a moment and kept his eyes transfixed on the horizon and the setting sun, his mind elsewhere. It was at times like this he would remember his father and their large summer home in Blois. He remembered his tutor and what nonsense he had to learn that rarely helped him in the real world. Not once had a random Parisian asked him who the king of England was in 1152. Even now, he could still say that it was King Stephen. Such was the education of an only son from a wealthy family. Suddenly, Enjolras felt a slight kick at his shin.

"Enjolras…. Are you all right?" asked Gavroche.

Enjolras looked back at the street urchin. "Of course, Gavroche. Why wouldn't I be?"

"Well… for the last hour or so you've seemed… distant," he said.

"I have a lot on my mind," Enjolras responded. Gavroche had the same wide-eyed innocent look that he had when he was a child and feeling uneasy. He always knew what made him feel better when he was in that mood. He inched the chair back and patted his knee. Gavroche took the hint knowingly and climbed upon to the knee of the twenty-two year old handsome revolutionary.

"What are you thinking about?" Gavroche asked, leaning his head on Enjolras's chest as if the latter were his father.

"The Kings and Queens of France and England," Enjolras responded, absentmindedly running his fingers through Gavroche's fine brown hair as if the latter were his son.


End file.
